


Killed me with love for that Boy

by livelongandgetiton



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Dubious Science, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oblivious, Pining, Star Trek: AOS, lol guys there's greek lesbian poetry in this idk, pining!Spock, sapphos, spock just thinks it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:49:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livelongandgetiton/pseuds/livelongandgetiton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s no use<br/>Mother dear, I<br/>can’t finish my weaving.<br/>You may<br/>blame Aphrodite<br/>soft as she is<br/>she has almost<br/>killed me with<br/>love for that boy.”</p><p>In which Spock endures the pain of pining from afar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Killed me with love for that Boy

There’s something inexplicably beautiful about James T. Kirk; but that doesn’t stop Spock’s brain from calculating an infinite list, spilling through the cracks of his subconscious every waking moment (and many of the non-waking ones).  
  
Spock is not sure what it means to be in love. He knows that he is half human. He is not deluded enough to think that Vulcans cannot love, but he would never admit to such a thing if questioned.  
  
He has surmised that the traits of selflessness and adoration tend to go hand in hand when one is truly enamored. This is logical to him, and yet—the seemingly endless flow of compliments to Jim’s person is not.  
  
He had never understood the human colloquialism of ‘heart ache’ until he became acquainted with his captain.  
  
Of course, it wasn’t immediate; somehow, over the course of the past 2 years of their five-year mission, Jim had—as his human crewmates would put it—wormed his way into Spock’s heart.  
  
He found himself—disturbingly—watching the captain for longer periods of time during shift than was entirely necessary. His eyes followed the quick movements of his captain’s golden head—the strong column of his throat or the tight shift of dandelion-gold fabric against his biceps. When azure eyes fixed on his own, shining with an inexorable depth that blue eyes so often lacked, Spock found his wits flung from him, stolen by a cobalt-eyed adrenalin junkie whose smile burned its visage onto the inside of his eyelids, and whose saccharine laughter haunted his dreams.

And now, Spock was resigned to his observations.

The captain shared one, sometimes two meals with him a day—and it was a torturous and, conversely, extremely treasured part of Spock’s day.  
  
Jim was a messy eater. He would sometimes drop food on his uniform, and he lick his fingers clean. Spock employs every ounce of vulcan control within him when his blond-haired companion sucks the tips of his fingers into his mouth; he stares resolutely ahead or at his food while the pointed, pink tongue dexterously swirls around the digits; his mouth is a straight, compressed line while Jim purses his thick, full lips, pulling his fingers out with a clean pop, tongue darting out (for the 37th time today) to wet his lips.

Spock sometimes thinks (quite illogically) that he deserves some sort of commendation for his outstanding display of control. Surely not even a full-blooded Vulcan could withstand the daily of assault of the captain—Jim’s—charms.

And he does withstand them.  
  
Because he knows that the captain is not his to have; to take. He has to meditate daily, take deep breaths, withdraw into his mind—but he resists.

He has to remind himself not to reach out and touch the soft golden hair that glows like corn silk in the low light of his quarters when they play chess late into the night together. He has to remind himself not to sway back into the sturdy, alien heat of Jim’s chest when he comes up to stand behind Spock at his viewer on the bridge. He has to remind himself that Jim is _not his._  
  
And he is certainly not the only one in love with the captain of the USS Enterprise.  
  
Or at the very least, attracted to him. Jim is the youngest captain Starfleet’s ever had, and arguably one of the best-looking. Or at least, that’s the opinion of most of the crew (Spock included).

Spock has seen the way yeomen, ensigns, and even a fair amount of lieutenants look at their captain. And he has seen the enthusiasm with which their captain often responds to these lascivious glances. He knows for a _fact_ that Jim is not actually as promiscuous as rumors claim, but he also knows that he is not _virginal_ , nor is he averse to constant and incessant flirtations. (With people who aren’t Spock.)

Spock has seen the way his bright blue eyes become hooded by thick blond lashes, he has seen the soft curve of a smirk rippling the symmetry of full lips, he has seen that yearned for gaze follow men and women across the bridge, in the halls of the ship, sharpened in the low lights of a bar or club on shore leave. And every time it happens, he feels (again, illogically) an aching pain beyond comprehension in his side, right over his heart. He feels the speed at which his blood pumps through his body increase at a rate of six point seven eight percent, feels the heat that threatens to flood his cheeks, the anger and shame and (worst of all) envy that want to claw to the surface, like burning bile rising in his throat.

And if Vulcans could hate, he would hate this feeling.  
  
But even then, he admits, he’d be telling two lies: He knows he indeed _can_ hate (he hated Khan, in that moment—and forever more—more strongly than even a human) and he knows that he does not hate the feeling of being in love with James T. Kirk.

* * *

 

“Mr. Spock, sensor scans?”  
  
“All normal, captain. But, I am picking up faint energy readings towards the beta quadrant.”  
  
“Of what sort? And how faint? Could we be looking at an ion storm?”

“Not that powerful, captain. They are…they could be disturbances in the dark matter. Cause unknown,” Spock hesitated as he heard the captain’s light footfalls, coming to a stop just diagonally behind him.  
  
“May I take a look?” Kirk asked, though he spoke with the finality of a starship captain, already bracing a hand against the console (verging on entering Spock’s personal space) and leaning forward to gaze into the viewer (officially in Spock’s personal space).

Spock let a brief moment of panic eek through his defenses—he wondered if he should he move away and give the captain space, or if it would make him look too bothered by his presence--before squashing it dispassionately and holding very, very still.  
  
Jim seemed not to notice, the muscles in his face tensing as he squinted into the small monocular eyepiece.

_Jim wears eye contacts on shift and corrective lenses (sparingly) in his free time due to a visual impairment that he is unable to have amended with surgery, due to his allergy to Retinax._

Spock stared at the profile of Jim’s face, following the lines of his taut jaw up the curve of his lips, and to the feathery lashes that glowed blue with the soft light emanating from the viewer.

A blue that couldn’t possibly begin to rival the stunning cerulean of his irises, made all the more bright by the shadowed bags and contrasting deepening laugh lines that were becoming commonly present around them as the five-year mission progressed. In perhaps a brief moment of insanity, Spock thought of the few times in his life that he had seen terran swimming pools—they had been somewhat rare but not entirely absent in San Francisco in the summer. The nearly fluorescent blue of the chlorinated water struck a striking resemblance to—

Jim looked up suddenly, his eyes immediately honing in on Spock—who, unfortunately, had still been staring at Jim’s face, but could pass it off as curiosity for his captain’s feedback—as he spoke.

“Looks like magnetic fluctuation…did your readings pick up anything of the sort?”

Spock felt the blood threaten to flood his cheeks as he held Jim’s gaze steadfastly.  
  
“I…had not yet gotten to that, captain,” he murmured, his eyes shifting fractionally to the side before quickly returning to the captain’s.  
  
He did not fail to notice that several of those on the bridge crew seated near him fell silent.

Jim’s eyes widened slightly and his mouth opened as if to say something, but then Spock could see the quick calculations the man was making in his head as his lips fell closed, a contemplative look briefly crossing his features before it was glossed over with a friendly smile.

“Of course, Mr. Spock! My apologies. Those instruments probably aren’t as well suited as Scotty’s to pick up this kind of thing anyway.”

With that he stepped back from the console, pulling out his communicator and turning away slightly as he flipped it open.

“Captain Kirk to Engineering, Commander Scott,”

_“Scott Here. What can I do for you, cap’n?”_

“Scotty, I need you to take readings of possible magnetic fluctuations at the following coordinates…”

Spock discreetly gazed around the bridge as Kirk spoke, issuing disapproving glowers to those who were still looking his way until they sheepishly returned to their duties. When his gaze met Uhura’s, he found himself—to his horror—fighting down another flood of heat to his face. The Lieutenant had a concerned-knowing hybrid of a look on her features, and Spock inwardly lamented the human tendency to wear emotions so clearly on one’s face.

She gave him a tilt of her head and a raise of an eyebrow that said, ‘we will be having words, later.’

Spock suppressed a twitch in his jaw.

“…alright Scotty, thanks. Kirk out,” Jim closed his communicator and turned back to Spock, his eyes smiling in a way that Spock had only seen a few other humans emulate.

“Chess tonight, Spock?”

Jim’s voice jarred Spock on some level, though he had been paying attention to Kirk.

He frowned slightly. His emotional stability was at an unreasonable level today. He required meditation, and was fairly sure (98.7666%) that spending more time in the company of his captain would not only fail to alleviate these minute emotional lapses but would—in fact—exacerbate them.

More than anything he would _like_ to spend more time in Jim’s company, but the very fact that he could so clearly hear that opinion ringing in the no-longer-organized chaos of his mind meant that he would have to deny himself this pleasure for the time being—until he could get his controls back in place.

“I’m afraid that I will be unavailable this evening, Captain,” Spock replied (not even untrue, he would need much time for meditation and contemplation that night), levelling a steady gaze back at Jim though he felt nowhere near steady internally.

Spock saw Jim’s face physically fall at his rejection (or perhaps it was his use of the Captain’s title instead of the unprofessional first name that he always illogically insisted Spock call him) and ignored the painful twist in his side. Jim recovered a neutral expression, however, quickly enough to impress any Vulcan, and gave a curt nod and a polite smile—the same smile used to charm diplomats and appease the admiralty, and somehow seeing it in this context made Spock’s stomach churn uncomfortably—before beginning to turn away, even as he still spoke.

“Right. Some other time.”

Spock watched him leave, hoping desperately that his face did not betray the swirling torrent of emotions in his mind.

* * *

 

Jim glanced up from his datapad surreptitiously as Spock and Uhura entered the turbolift together at the end of shift.

He wondered what was going on with Spock. He was trying to consider things from a professional point of view (was Spock ill? Was his ability to perform being effected by some personal dilemma?) but it was hard not for him to take the rejection personally.

Jim frowned down at his datapad, considering his options. Did this really warrant a talk with his First Officer? Sure, Vulcans were near perfect with their efficiency, but everyone made mistakes now and then…and perhaps him calling up Scotty to check something that Spock could’ve checked himself had been what had made Spock upset with him in the first place. If he even was upset. Which he totally was. (Jim didn’t believe the “Vulcans don’t have emotions” spiel for one second.)

Jim didn’t want to upset him further by suggesting that it was affecting his working abilities—which it really wasn’t, he just really wanted to find out what was wrong. Because clearly, something was.

Jim’s brows furrowed. He also didn’t want to look like a “puppy nipping at Spock’s heels” as Bones had called him the other day. He was aware that he had been actively seeking Spock’s friendship and spending a lot of time with the Vulcan…but he thought they were making progress! And maybe Jim was a little bit obsessed with making his first officer like him…so what? The guy had saved his life. And according to his older counterpart, they were destined for a great friendship. He could totally dig that.

And if maybe, just _maybe_ , he was a little bit attracted to his First Officer, it wasn’t like he would let that get in the way of their friendship. He was totally professional around him on duty, and only flirted with him a _little_ , and even then Vulcan seemed never to notice.

Jim’s eyes swept closed for a brief moment as he swept those thoughts away, they were hardly conducive to anything productive at the moment. When he reopened them he began to carefully read over the document on the glowing screen before him—for once he was going to finish his paperwork early so he could have an evening off.

He cursed when his eyes landed on the bottom of the doc. He had forgotten to get Spock’s signature—normally he’d just call Spock over during bridge duty but he’d been somewhat distracted. He could, of course, just send the document to Spock’s personal PADD, but he told himself that he wanted this paperwork finished as soon as possible…though he knew he was just making an excuse so that he could try to have a conversation with Spock.

He pressed down on one of the computer console buttons on the chair’s arm.

“Computer, state the location of Commander Spock.”

_“Commander Spock is in Observation Deck B.”_

Jim leapt from his chair—perhaps more enthusiastically than was entirely necessary—and headed to the turbolift. He was going to have a nice, logical conversation with Spock.

When the ‘lift doors glided open on the correct floor, Jim strode down the nearly-empty hall, coming up to the doorway of the observation deck. He could see the back of Spock’s ebony head, staring out at the stars, but stopped himself from entering when he heard Uhura’s lilting voice coming from inside, and a flash of her red uniform as she swayed closer to Spock, placing a hand lightly at the crook of his elbow before patting it once and removing it.

Jim frowned. He should probably come back later, but…

“Just…consider it, would you, Spock?” she said softly.

Jim didn’t know the context of that statement, but he could hear Uhura’s footsteps approaching the doorway, and assumed the conversation was over. He began to walk forward, but Spock’s soft but resolute tone ringing across the empty room stopped both him and Uhura in their tracks.

“I most certainly will not.”

Jim suddenly felt as if he was intruding on something much more serious than he had previously considered. He knew that now would be a good time to walk away, to give Spock and Uhura privacy, but he found his feet glued to the floor. Maybe the conversation would still end, and he could get a word in…

 

* * *

 

Spock was frustrated. He would not admit to it, but each moment that Uhura insisted on carrying on this pointless conversation, the more irritated he became. He had planned on meditating for several hours right after his shift, and he was coming to the end of his proverbial “rope”.

“Spock, Kirk looked like a kicked puppy when you turned him down today. You need to talk to him,” Uhura crossed her arms, pacing around the deck while Spock stood motionless at the large viewport, watching the flashes of her red uniform as they reflected against the dusky glass.

He truly trusted and admired Uhura as a friend and confidante, but he was beginning to question the wisdom of sharing his affections towards their captain with her. She seemed to be on the “warpath” for setting them up romantically—or at least to get Spock to admit his feelings to Kirk.

“The captain is not an infantile terran canine, Nyota,” Spock began, choosing to ignore the latter of her two statements. “And he understands that I am not capable of spending every waking off-duty moment with him.”

Uhura raised an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms over her chest and staring him down with a gaze he was apprehensive to meet.

“Don’t get snarky with me, Spock. You and I both know that it was the _way_ you turned him down that made him bat those big baby blues at you. If you don’t tell him soon he’s gonna think you hate him.”

Spock bristled, suddenly faintly aware of the sound of footsteps outside in the corridor.

He lowered his voice, not particularly fond of the idea of a subordinate hearing his conversation with the Lieutenant.

“This is hardly an appropriate place to be having this conversation, Nyota…” he said, lowering his voice.

He could no longer hear the footsteps, however, and assumed the person had moved on.

Uhura sighed, her features softening and her voice, too, lowering in pitch as she walked up to Spock, placing a gentle hand on his arm. Though his arm was covered by his uniform, he could feel small tendrils of concern and affection coming from her skin before she carefully removed her hand.

“Just…consider it, would you, Spock?”

Spock felt suddenly, illogically overcome with anger, as he watched Nyota’s retreating form. Why would he even consider it? What good would come of telling the captain how he truly felt? How could his feelings possibly be reciprocated? He would much rather suffer in silence.

“I most certainly will not,” he spoke firmly, his chin jutted outward slightly, but tried his hardest not to let any of his indignation show in his tone.

Uhura turned around slowly, her eyes placating, and her mouth opened to speak, but Spock held one hand up, staying her speech as he continued.

“I do not mean this as a personal affront, Nyota. I appreciate your counsel, however, I know what is best in this situation. What good would come of telling him? What could I possibly achieve?”

“Spock, you—”

Spock felt anger threaten to take over.

“I could what? Hope that by some infinitesimal chance that he may return my regard? I, unlike humans, am not so careless and flippant with my emotions.”

“But—”

“I will not tell Jim that I love him!” he hissed, hands clenching in a desperate grasp at his fleeting controls.

And then he heard the gasp.

But it was not from Nyota.

Spock experienced a strange sensation where, had he not known it to be physically improbable, time seemed to slow down fractionally.

Fear and anticipation crashed over him like a tsunami, his muscles tensing as he took a step forward—it could be anyone in the crew, but Spock somehow already knew that it was only the worst possible person to have been listening in on that conversation.

And as the gold uniform and stunned, expressive face came into view, Spock knew that he was absolutely correct.

Spock watched the pale tones of his captain’s face slowly turn to a rather alluring shade of red as his eyes met his XO’s. His mouth hung open in a rather unattractive fashion, though this was no comfort to Spock.

“I—“ Jim stopped himself after uttering that one vowel, his eyes still glued to Spock’s (who was entirely unmoving).

For once, he seemed to be at a loss for words. Spock, unfortunately, found himself in the same position.

Nyota’s face went slack with shock as well, and she spun around to face Kirk, her expression (Spock could not see it, nor could he have processed it at the time anyway) causing him to flinch back.

And with that the moment was broken, and Spock slammed his controls down like a steel wall, his face going entirely blank.

“Excuse me, captain,” were the only words he spoke as he walked past Jim and down the corridor at a swift pace.

He didn’t turn to look at the captain or respond to the words (barely discernable, ‘Wait, Spock!’) that followed him—he simply walked with an inhuman speed towards his quarters, his violent, turbulent emotions bubbling to the surface like an unstoppable tidal wave. His control was in tatters—he could not even consider what had just happened until he could calm himself.

When Spock reached his quarters it all hit him at once; out of the public eye of his crew he felt immense pain, sadness, and anger wash over him with such violent intensity that he swayed where he stood, his knees nearly buckling as a wretched gasp ripped its way through his chest.

He stumbled across the room, hands groping for the box of mediation incense he kept in a bedside drawer. He gripped it tightly, the cardboard warping beneath his strong fingers—and noted with disgust as he pulled a handful of sticks from the carton that his hands were trembling. Fury and self-loathing washed over him as his fingers clenched spasmodically, crushing the stick into fine, velvety powder that slipped through his fingertips and onto the carpet below.

Spock allowed himself to fall to his knees, eyes squeezed tightly shut as his hands came up to clamp around his head, shutting him off effectively from the outside world, though doing nothing to abate the internal chaos of his mind.

He sat there for a few blessed moments in silence, allowing the exquisite and potent feeling of pure, illogical despair to course through him. His limbs shook, his head spun, and his chest constricted with each ragged breath that he drew in. He could give himself these few short moments—and then he would compose himself. He would pull himself together and move on as if nothing had happened. He was a Vulcan, and that was the Vulcan way.

Spock’s door chime sounded, startling him so completely that he jumped to his feet, swaying slightly as he stood, his hands flying out to balance himself.

He hadn’t remembered having had the foresight to lock his door behind him, but evidently whoever was at the door had decided to be polite enough to wait for his permission before entering. He remained perfectly still where he stood.

There was little question as to who might be at his door (though if he was lucky, perhaps it was simply Nyota). All doubt was wiped from his mind as he heard the softened, almost tremulous-sounding voice of his captain from outside his quarters.

“Spock, it’s, ah. It’s me, it’s Cap—Jim. Can you—would you please…just let me in? Can we just talk? I mean—”

“Enter,” Spock called out, impressed with how little his voice shook.

He drew himself up to his full height, carefully settling into a blank expression and crossing his arms behind him, gripping his wrist tightly.

His shoulders straightened at the sound of the door _swoosh_ ing open and he steeled himself, giving a curt nod to the general area of the doorway before fixing his gaze on a patch of wall directly adjacent to the captain.

“Captain.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Spock could see the captain taking a few cautious steps forward, the door eventually sliding shut behind him as he moved out of its motion-sensor range. If Spock’s stomach weren’t churning so uncomfortably he might have taken amusement in the fact that Jim was approaching him as one did an untamed _sehlat_ in the wild.

“Spock—” Jim began, and Spock could already feel his control slipping; his skin sang and prickled with Jim’s very presence in the room—a bodily betrayal.

There was a slight pause before Jim spoke again, dangerously stepping closer to Spock, who visibly stiffened.

“I…well, first of all I’d like to apologize profusely for eavesdropping on your conversation with Uhura—it was totally out of line—and entirely not my intention! See, I was just looking for you so—”

“It is of little consequence captain, apologies are unnecessary,” Spock spoke robotically, without inflection, his body language dismissive as he turned slightly away to bear his shoulders and back to the captain (he knew it was rude, but he had no desire for Jim to see his face if his controls were to utterly fail him again). “If that is all, Captain, I have duties which require my immediate attention—”

Jim made a frustrated noise, stalking up to Spock and grabbing at his arm as he spoke, “No, that’s not all! Spock, don’t dismiss me like that!”

Spock pulled out of the grip as if burned, swallowing down the lividness that he was sure shone in his eyes as he turned to face the captain, who effectively took a step back.

Spock stared at him for a few more seconds, eyes unwaveringly locked with the tired-looking blue ones. Jim held his own, though a curious red blush began to spread across his cheeks as the seconds ticked on.

Spock let out a minute sigh, dropping his gaze.

“Proceed.”

Silence passed for what seemed like an eternity between the two.

When Spock dared to look up, Jim was staring at his still trembling hands, his brow furrowed deeply. Spock cursed his lack of control.

“Spock…I…” Jim took another step forward, his eyes shining with an abundance of unidentifiable emotions. Spock did not understand how some humans could make their emotions so evident and yet equally as indecipherable.

He cautiously reached one hand forward, gingerly placing it on Spock’s shoulder. This time he didn’t pull away, flinching slightly at Kirk’s gentle grip and then dissolving into a fine trembling that wracked his whole frame. He could not meet his captain’s eyes.

“…you’re in…you’re in love with me?”

Spock felt his chest constrict painfully, curling in further on himself—his previous ramrod straight posture had devolved significantly into his current, hunched over stature, his arms wrapped loosely around himself, as if trying to hold himself together.

“Spock?”

At the utterance of his name from those sweet lips, Spock felt his world collapse. A choked, bitter laugh (sounding more like a sob) forced itself out from his chest.

Even through the fabric of his uniform Spock could sense Jim’s surprise and concern through their points of physical contact.

“How could I not be?” he ground out, incredulous—and surprised by the emotional, choked tone of his own voice.

He met Kirk’s eyes, feeling wetness in his own that he had not felt since the death of his mother. Jim’s mouth fell open, so enticingly red and full that Spock was sure his desperate longing shone in his eyes.

“Are you not aware of how many of your crew share this same regard? Is there anyone immune to becoming enamored with you?” Spock continued, relentless, his anger growing. “I thought it illogical. I thought I that I would not…I…I was wrong.”

Jim’s chest was rapidly rising and falling now, pink staining his cheeks. He started to say something, but Spock cut him off, turning away from him again, ashamed as he spoke.

“Indeed…how foolish of me to assume that I would not share the same fate…how could I not love you, Jim?” he spoke desperately, his voice catching as he furiously fought the tears in his eyes. “You are the kindest, most empathetic, intelligent, caring, intuitive, stubborn, strong-willed, entertaining, alluring, and enticing individual…I have ever had the pleasure and pain of knowing. You showed me friendship when others feared me. You genuinely cared about me…you provide me with more stimulating conversations than any other I’ve met…”

Spock was speaking to the floor now, barely even aware of the small, shriveled voice of logic in the back of his mind that was horrified at this emotional catharsis, taking too much comfort in the pleasure-pain of confessing all of his feelings to Jim.

“And I am so utterly enamored with you that I can no longer control myself—” Spock’s voice cracked and he sucked in a steadying breath, swaying on his feet. “I can no longer control my emotions. I can never have you. And I must accept this and move on. I must—”

Suddenly Jim was in front of him, all around him—his warm hands cupped Spock’s face and his alien skin felt scorching—like the desert sands of Vulcan, Spock thought—against his own. Jim’s eyes were a more intense color than he had ever seen before, magnified by—tears?

Jim had tears in his eyes.

Spock’s stomach dropped.

“I have upset you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Jim…Captain, I apologize—”

“Spock!” Jim breathed, his thumbs moving upwards slowly to stroke along Spock’s cheekbones; the Vulcan suppressed a violent shudder at the action, his eyes slipping closed. “I was…surprised to find out you…loved me…”

Spock feared what came next. Pity? Sadness?

“But who said you could never have me?” he whispered, leaning forward until their foreheads touched.

Spock sucked in a sharp breath, Jim’s feelings of affection and caring and concern and…could it be—desire?—flowed through him like a conduit from the skin-to-skin contact.

“Jim—” Spock began, eyes wide, unabashed hopefulness illuminating his features.

“I was surprised,” Jim interrupted him, stepping so their chests fit together, Jim’s heat soaking into Spock’s skin even through two layers of uniform. “—because I never thought that you would feel the same way I do. And clearly, I was wrong. And I’ve never been quite so happy to say that.”

Spock felt his heart nearly stutter to a stop in his side, its erratic beating increasing tenfold as Jim’s eyes bored into his, one of his hands sliding down the smooth skin of Spock’s jaw to cup his neck. He couldn’t process Jim’s words fully—sure it was a jest—Jim actually shared his regard? How…?

Before Spock could make any more sense of the situation, Jim was using the hand on Spock’s neck to pull him forward, and their lips met in an unbearably hot, soft kiss.

Spock froze, a fluttery feeling of exquisite, scorching heat racing up his spinal column as Jim’s soft, full lips moved over his, tentatively. Spock could sense his hesitancy and desire both through their contact, and pure elation coursed through him.

He wrapped an arm around Jim’s head, the other around his waist, dragging their bodies together and tilting his head to deepen the kiss. He could feel his captain’s lips curving into a smile, even as they were ravished by his XO.

Spock pulled back when he could no longer go on without air, pressing his forehead to Jim’s and staring into the other’s slightly clouded blue eyes as they fluttered open.

“Jim… _ashayam_ , I cherish thee. I…I did not think that my feelings would be reciprocated…”

“Why wouldn’t you? Don’t you know how amazing you are?” Jim smiled unabashedly, his affections causing heat to suffuse Spock’s face.

“You…had shown interest in others that you did not show to me…”

Jim snorted, tilting his head to place a light, slow kiss on Spock’s jaw, dragging his lips tantalizingly slowly against the skin of Spock’s jaw while a wandering hand descended down the line of his spine, fingers dancing along the vertebrae.

Spock gasped at the unexpected pleasure of the sensations, his back arching under the captain’s grip.

“I didn’t want to scare you away. I flirt with everyone, its second nature to me,” Jim murmured into the space beneath his jaw, nipping lightly at the sensitized flesh. “But you’re so much more important than everyone else.”

He pulled back to look Spock in the eyes, and Spock cherished the view of his disheveled blonde hair, flushed cheeks, and earnest eyes.

“I was so afraid of doing something wrong,” he whispered, his hand tightening over Spock’s lower back and crumpling the fabric there in his fist.

“You could not have,” Spock answered back, solemnly, quietly, as he trailed his fingers over Jim’s face.

 

* * *

 

 

Spock lay propped by his elbows over Jim on the bed in his quarters; the human beneath him was flushed a delightful pink along the entire length of his nude body. Spock drove his hips downward, eliciting a choked gasp from Jim as he writhed desperately beneath him, his own hips pushing up and creating a delicious friction between their cocks as the hot flesh slid together.

Spock admired the spectacle of the gorgeous captain beneath him for a moment, dark eyes full of swirling emotion and raw lust—before running a hand beneath one smooth, toned thigh and hiking it up around his waist. He couldn’t hold back the pleased groan that escaped his own lips as his length rubbed along Jim’s perineum. Jim himself let out a high whine, his head falling back against the pillow as the long length of his throat became available for Spock’s immediate use.

Never one to squander an opportunity, he greedily attached himself to the golden flesh, sucking dark nebulas of bruises into the skin of Jim’s collarbone and neck.

“Spock…please,” Jim whispered, his nails digging pale green crescents into the flesh of Spock’s arms where they gripped him tightly. Spock could feel the lust and desire pouring off of Jim and nearly growled, gently flipping the human over onto his stomach.

He sucked in a small breath as the golden expanse of Jim’s back came into view, and his full backside. Spock leaned down over him, mapping the constellation of freckles on his lover’s back with his tongue.

 _How fitting_ , Spock thought, with affection, _that his beautiful body represents that which he loves so dearly._

Spock placed a tender kiss in between Jim’s shoulder blades and whispered there, in his own language, of the eternities of love he had to give to him.

 

* * *

 

Later that night—or, Spock thought with amusement, very early the next morning—as Spock lay in his bed, he tried to process all that had happened. He stroked a hand lovingly through the golden hair of his captain, who had wrapped his person entirely around Spock, bare limbs spreading a pleasant warmth through Spock’s body where they contact his skin.

He thought of all the unnecessary pain he had endured because of his own, irrational fears of rejection by one who loved him just as equally. Quite illogical. Suddenly, (seemingly apropos of nothing) the work of an ancient female poet of Earth came to his mind with poignancy. He had found Ancient terran Greek literature quite fascinating (if not a bit fantastical) and now was remembering the poet Sapphos, of Lesbos.

A pang of sweet melancholia hit him as he remembered speaking to his mother about it, and her enthusiastic response, telling him of one of her favorite poems. One that she said that one day, when he was in love, he could read back to her, perhaps. And he, of course, had responded with a tolerant sigh and a raised eyebrow. But now, he realized, she had been quite correct.

He recalled the poem as he ran gentle, caressing fingers over the skin of Jim’s shoulders, following the trail of freckles in a loving circular pattern as he murmured the nearly forgotten words into his lover’s hair:

“It’s no use

Mother dear, I

can’t finish my weaving.

You may

blame Aphrodite

soft as she is 

she has almost

killed me with

love for that boy.”

**Author's Note:**

> (thanks for reading; you can find me under the same moniker on tumblr ♥)


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